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They
say when you visit a place; if you desire to return there one day, take a
stone with you. I had to choose good stone that would capture the essence
of this place and reflect its geography, an amulet capable of carrying in
its interior the scent of humid vegetation and at the same time recall the
wind and the sweet taste of these waters. A stone that transmits the
sensation of purity and freedom of the elements that formed it. Barefoot,
I walked the watery, sandy frontier where Todos los Santos (All Saints)
Lake met the shore, until finally I found it, semi-submerged, with a small
fresh water snail stuck to its rough surface. Meanwhile, my traveling
companion meticulously packed the load within his kayak.
In 1670, a group of Jesuit missionaries set out from the rain-drenched
city of Castro in southern Chile in search of the
Ciudad de
los Césares
(City of the Césars) and the most direct route to points east and north.
The City of the Césars was a fabled, remote place of great mineral riches
founded by followers of Francisco de César, a member of navigator
Sebastian Cabot´s Rio de la Plata expedition of 1526. Apparently, the
Jesuits believed that they would find plenty of God’s work that needed
doing among a ragtag group of conquistadors´ descendants, European
refugees, and natives.
 The fact that there was supposed to be gold in the area only made saving
these lost souls all the more attractive. This intrepid group of holy men
hiked through dense temperate rain forest and sailed in sturdy pirogues
made by their native guides, but failed in their quest for the magical
City of the Césars. What they did find, though, was an enormous blue-green
glacial lake that they named Todos los Santos.
More than three centuries later, a friend and I traveled the Jesuits’ route, in kayaks, to explore the fabulous emerald waters. We left
from Petrohué, a small port settlement on the western shore of the lake that
was established by early pioneers and is today a commercial center for the
region’s dairy farmers. Starting out, we knew little of the region’s
splendors and couldn’t imagine its true vastness. Located inside the
626,000-acre Vicente Pérez Rosales National Park (Chile’s first national
park, established in 1926), Todos los Santos is part of a chain of lakes
linked by mountain passes between Chile and the Argentine pampas. Both
volcanic and glacial, it is twenty-two miles wide from Petrohué to our
destination at Peulla, the easternmost point.
Leaving the port behind, we follow along the shoreline, gradually growing
accustomed to the weight and distribution of our equipment in the kayaks.
Then, slowly, the water begins to take on a greenish tinge. We find
ourselves paddling through scenery that could have been painted by
Gauguin—reddish sky, green-black mountains, and emerald water. In some
places the water is so clear that we can see large tree trunks far below
on the rocky bottom. The effect is dizzying. We stop at several points to
take in the scene before us, neither of us bothered by our slowing pace.
 At dusk, near the lagoon at
Cayutué (six craters), we set up our tent on a white-sand
beach strewn with beech trunks. Eroded by the water and incessant wind,
they have acquired
a delicate velvety texture. This site, sheltered from the wind, with space
enough for camping, might well have been one of the landing spots where
the Jesuit explorers had taken refuge. Having failed to find a way through
the mountains, they were obliged to take to the water in boats provided by
the
Huilliches,
the “people of the south,” ancient inhabitants who dominated the area from
the west and were thoroughly versed in its geography as a result of heavy
trading with the
Puelches,
the “people of the east.”
Sitting on the lakeshore watching the sunset, we try to envisage those
intrepid missionaries in their rustic canoes lashed together with lianas,
guided through that immense space by
Huilliches
clad in wool ponchos. We watch them disappear into the swirling fog of
night and history.
Daybreak brings the first summer rains, and everything is soon drenched.
We leave the tent to gaze at a great wall of vegetation before us. The
high forest humidity produces large clouds that combine with rocky ravines
and steep walls to give the scene a dreamlike air. We continue our
paddling into the teeth of the heavy rain.
 Entering the lagoon at
Cayutué, we find ourselves in magical waters.
The
beech forest, pines and firs mixed with hundreds of elms, and the imposing
presence of the Puntiagudo and Osorno volcanoes overwhelms us. We decide
to rest at the base of the
Cascada
del Encanto (the Enchanted Waterfall), where rainbow trout and perch congregate in the
freshly oxygenated waters, nibbling at seeds and fallen insects. From a
nearby branch, a kingfisher deftly snatches small fish from the water with
quick thrusts of its beak and devours them on the spot. After a light,
rather damp supper, we paddle out several hundred feet from shore to find a wider view of the mountains and a beach suitable for our second night in
the open. From the middle of the bay, we marvel at the falls and at the
ferns cascading into the lake like carpets hung from the very top of the
hills. Finally, with the approach of night, we decide to cross the bay to
a broad beach of volcanic pebbles shaped by the waves and strewn with
driftwood. Above us, centered by the constellation Orion, the sky is
already laden with stars. Bonete Peak dominates the land below and
protects us from the wind.
The next day, full of birdsong and cataracts, we walk along a fantastical
trail surrounded by red-barked myrtles and strewn with yellow wildflowers
that appear like small spirits in the woods. We imagine the astonishment
of the Jesuits as they entered these latitudes and the difficulties they
must have encountered, such as the fearsome
liguay,
or giant leech. We come upon one curled up among some stones. The
creature must be nearly twenty inches long.
 We
identify medicinal plants and herbs that the
Huilliches
used:
pilpil
voqui
(Boquilla trifolata), undoubtedly carried by natives on their journeys for
curing eye afflictions and swelling from insect bites;
quilo
or
mollaca
(Muehlenbeckia thamnifolia), a forest creeper whose roots and leaves were
probably employed as a diuretic; and
voqui
colorado
(Cissus striata), another vine that grows abundantly in southern Chile
and
serves as an astringent. Its flexible, resistant stalk is also used to
lash together fences and make tools. There are other uses for local wild
plants, such as the
deu
or
matarratones
(mousekiller) (Coriaria ruscifolia), which, as its name suggests, is still
used to keep rodents away, as well as to dye cloth black. One also finds
copihue
(Lapageria rosea), a vine native to Chile, with large deep red flowers and
edible berries. Also tasty is the fruit of the myrtle bush (Ugni molinae),
very popular with German settlers for making traditional
 confections.
We return to the beach and quickly strike camp; a strong wind is stirring
up whitecaps in the middle of the lake. With some difficulty we are able
to push off from the beach and continue paddling. However, the wind blows
steadily, and we are forced to land every so often to rest and secure our
loads. Since we cannot make much progress, we poke around near the shore
and end up spending another night on a small, well-protected beach. Before
us, a thousand-foot waterfall drops like a slender silver strand from a
large boulder.
At dawn we must paddle, literally, under water, as heavy rain continues.
From time to time we leave the kayaks to rest, but this only makes the
situation worse, as they continually fill with rain. Navigating in a
landscape washed of color, through a world of obscure shadows and mists,
we are exhausted. Before us a small port appears, and we decide
to tie up in the hopes of being invited in to dry our sodden cargo.
 Before
we know it, we find ourselves with plates of spaghetti bathed in spicy
ají
chili and freshly baked bread, guests of Don Rolando Muñoz, who lives here
with his family. Muñoz is the first person we have spoken to in days, and
he is so friendly and companionable that we feel immediately at home. That
night, by candlelight, he tells us of attacks by pumas on his animals and
of his wild boar hunts, showing us photographs and the remains of tusks as
sharp as knives.
By
the next morning the storm has blown over, and with our spirits restored,
we set out paddling along the northern mouth of the
Río Blanco, named for
the volcanic sediments washed down from a nearby
Volcán Tronador. Rising
in the distance, past bends and turns, we catch a glimpse of that giant
peak, at 11,350 feet the highest in the Patagonian Andes. Its harsh summit
boast three colossal crests-the Argentine, the Chilean, and an
international peak that splits the massif in two. A thick layer of ice
easily a hundred feet deep encompasses the Alerce, Frías, Casa Pangue,
Negro,
Castaño, and Overo glaciers. The name
Tronador, which means
thunderer, is well
deserved; the roar of falling ice is continuous.
All at once, we encounter a curious phenomenon, the meeting place of the
emerald lake and the turbid waters of the Río Blanco. Because
the two do not readily mix, they form a bi-colored waterway similar to the
junction of the far-off Amazon and Negro rivers. Along part of this route,
gigantic elms, well over a hundred feet high, catch our attention. A
profusion of immense white flowers rise majestically from the morning
mist, like phantoms of the cold, evergreen forest. Suddenly we find
ourselves
caught in rapids and touching bottom, which we cannot see
because
of the turbidity. It’s time to get back on course.
 In these high-altitude lakes, there is a rule of thumb that the lake has
already taught us well: Boxed-in winds from the cordillera canyons create
heavy waves late in the day. Still, the force of this phenomenon surprises
us as we cross the Blanco to the small town of Peulla, our last stop. The
waves are so high that they completely wash over our kayaks. With our
hearts in our throats, we arrive at Peulla, exhausted. There the lake
ends, lost among the cattails bordering its banks.
The Jesuits continued to seek the mythical City of the Césars by this
route for decades, but then abandoned it in the early eighteenth century
when several of them were killed at the mission at Nahuel Huapi, northeast
of here. Then the awe-inspiring trek through Todos los Santos was
forgotten for nearly two centuries before it was rediscovered by German
settlers in the late 1800s. Perhaps the Spaniards didn’t take a stone home
with them.
Ricardo
Carrasco Stuparich is a photographer who has worked extensively with
Americas, while traveling around South America. In addition, he
has contributed to National Geographic, The New York Times,
GeoMundo and
other renowned international publications.
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